He stood in the midst of the prairie, the vast plain expanding
without feature toward the horizons, beyond the limits of sight. In
such a place a man—no matter how small he made himself—could not
escape the eye of God.

A sensation, familiar, nauseating—like a needle boring into his
brain, brought him hurtling back along a dark tunnel toward
wakefulness. It was his uncanny ability to know he was being watched,
bracketed within someone's frame of sight. A gift? It had preserved
his life many times, and inevitably ensured the taking of another.

Fully awake now, but continuing to feign sleep, he lifted the lid
of one eye. Once he assessed the intruder, he released a long, relaxed
sigh, and greeted the rat standing on its hind legs in the corner of
the room, its forepaws held out in a gesture of supplication.

"Nothing here for you, bub. The cupboard's bare."

The rat twitched its nose, then disappeared through a slot between
the floor and the wall.

He rolled over on the flimsy cot, and tried to go back to sleep,
resigned to return to his dream of the prairie, but it was not to be.

A hard rap at the door was followed by Flannery's high, gravelly
whine. "Fitz! Fitz, ya sleeping beauty, ya. Get up and get
yourself to work. The bar's in Sweeney's hands—God help us. He'll
drink me bankrupt if he's left by himself for long."

Flannery was in the room before Fitz flung his legs over the cot
and sat up.

"Why in hell did you leave Sweeney by himself?"

"You've slept through the entire day—it's past time to begin
your shift."

Fitz stood and splashed water onto his face from a bowl set on a
rude stand in the corner.

"I need to visit the necessary."

"You'll take your relief along the way—in the alley if you
need to. Sweeney's apt to have drowned himself draining a keg by
now."

Fitz pushed his bowler onto his head and lifted his jacket over his
shoulder. He followed Flannery to the door, but the old man stopped at
the threshold.

"Well, it's about time you boys showed up," he bellowed
into the hallway. "A good thing it's still winter or she'd be
gone ripe by now."

"Aw, don't be crushing my stones," a voice gargled back.
"We're full up as it is. We'll have the devil's time trying to
wedge her in—good thing she's a skinny thing."

Fitz stepped around Flannery to regard the city employees earning
their bread. They leaned precariously on the narrow stairs looking
about to topple their charge out of the stretcher they bore. A blaze
of orange-red curls emerged from the top of the dirty gray blanket
covering her. A tiny pale hand hung lifeless from the edge.

Fitz reached for the hem and began to pull it down, hesitated, then
left the face covered.

"Who ... who is it?"

"The lass that lived on the top floor," Flannery said,
with just enough pity in his voice as was warranted. "I found her
hanging from the rafter this morning."

Fitz took the lifeless hand in his own and delicately placed it
under the blanket.

"Was she anything to ya, Fitz?"

"Huh? Uh, no. Didn't know her at all, save to nod hello."

"Ah, well, I expected it—after the diphtheria took the two
kids. She owed me three weeks rent, she did."

"And I'm sure you searched for it before you cut her
down."

"Aye, I did that. But there wasn't a penny to be found, and
nothing worth selling, even to the rag man. I'm too charitable, I tell
ya. It'll be me undoing one day."

"Ah, for sure, you're a genuine saint, Flannery."

"Get her out of here, boys," Flannery exhorted the dead
wagon crew. "The city will give her a proper burial out in the
potter's field."

They gingerly made their way down to the door and out onto the
stoop.

Flannery turned to Fitz. "Now, get the hell over to the bar.
Sweeney will be the one who'll be sainted; he'll be so pickled he'll
never corrupt and the Vatican'll have no choice but to induct him into
the ranks of Augustine."

Fitz stepped out into the gray March twilight as the dead wagon
pulled away. His thoughts turned to the small red-haired girl, and he
nearly stumbled over a child playing beside a mud puddle. Something
that resembled a long-dead pig lay a few feet from her. A freight
wagon passed in front of him, its pair of draught horses discharged
their own cargo of shit into the stew of mud and swill.

His bladder was bursting. He could have made his water right in the
street and no one would have objected, but he ducked into the alley,
leaned up against the side of the tavern and released his cock from
its confines. He sighed in relief as steam rose from the place where
his stream christened the wall.

The woman shrugged and stepped behind him as he fixed his trousers.
He smiled again. Old Mother Gummer—making a fair living on giving
toothless sucks—seemed to appear like a magician whenever and
wherever a cock needed attention. She charged two bits.

He'd never availed himself, but he had to admit he was curious what
it felt like.

He kicked the mire from his shoes and entered the barroom.
Sweeney's head popped up, his eyes wide and guilty.

"How much did you drink, shite gobbeen?"

Sweeney looked ancient; his stiff nest of gray hair coiled and fell
over his bushy eyebrows. His cheeks caved in around a mouth that was
mostly toothless. He was only 30.

"The bung come loose—honest. I just caught the spillage in
me mouth."

"What—were you planning to put it back?"

Sweeney shrugged.

"Get out of the way."

Sweeney positioned himself at the end of the bar, set to collect
glasses and wipe up the occasional pool of puke or blood. Fitz assayed
the patrons. There were eight souls, barely conscious, nursing beers.
They would be crowded out soon enough by tradesmen finishing up their
day, and sailors.

Fitz kept an eye out for trouble. Flannery kept a stout club behind
the bar, along with a leather sap. A double-shot derringer was also
hidden within reach.

Men piled in and scuffed their muddy feet on the floor strewn with
sawdust. Cards and games of chance were played and voices raised. The
players waved off the cadgers like so many flies.

The bar became louder as hands were won and lost. The reek of cheap
liquor rose with the smell of unwashed men.

Fitz felt the needle. He scanned the room like an owl and found his
man. He was dressed too well for this dump. His face was darkly
bearded; the brim of a burgundy velvet bowler shaded his eyes. But
Fitz saw their glint. He wore a three-quarter gambler's coat of the
same shade as the bowler.

The stranger took a half step toward the bar.

"Holy Christ—watch out!"

Fitz's eyes shifted from the man to a solitary sailor sitting at a
table against the far wall. The man was making some kind of speech and
waving a pistol in a circle above his head.

Fitz didn't understand his words.

"He's a Swede!" someone shouted.

Fitz hopped over the bar and stepped toward the sailor. The man
held a piece of paper under one hand as he aimlessly swung the gun in
the other.

"All right, sailor. Nobody wants trouble—put the pistol down
and I'll buy you a drink."

"Awright, then. He's got one kid—son and heir, and from what
I hear, a nancy. His old man has had to bail him out of quite a few
peccadilloes involving other young men. So the major made him marry. I
think the girl was a Pickman. Somebody got her with child."

"Somebody?"

"They said the child died soon after birth, but the dirt is,
the major didn't think it was his own grandchild, meaning, it wasn't
his son's child. Of course, since the boy's a nance ..." Flannery
shrugged.

"Doesn't explain why he wants to talk to me."

"Like it or not, boy, you have a reputation ... in some
circles."

"Not in the kinds of circles Foster moves in."

"Sometimes, boyo, stars cross and circles overlap."

"Truly, Flannery, you're a proper sage, you are."

Flannery grinned. "And you're like the son I never
wanted."

"Christ help me."

Fitz signaled to the man with the velvet bowler. "Let's be
off."

*
*
*

Fitz left Flannery to close up and followed his well-dressed
companion outside. A small carriage appeared out of the shadows. The
man entered it and gestured to Fitz to join him.

They rode in silence as the smells of the city receded. Clean air—it made Fitz uneasy.

Fitz thought they had traveled an hour when he heard the driver
call out. Another voice answered and he heard a gate open with a
metallic groan. Fitz ventured a peek outside the carriage. A mansion,
in the new French style, loomed in the early morning gloom. The
footfalls of the horse gnashed against crushed stone, then the
carriage stopped.

A footman opened the door for Fitz and he stepped out. His mute
companion followed and gestured to him.

They entered a grand hall, all gilded curtains and tapestry, and
rich dark wood. Fitz stopped to take in the luxury, then followed his
guide into a study.

A tall, gaunt man with a shock of white hair and wearing a long
black evening coat stood with his back half turned to them. He held
something that looked like a ledger book.

"Mr. Fitz, sir," the velvet bowler said.

The Major turned. "Good morning, Mr. Fitz. Have you had
breakfast?"

"No, sir. I'm not usually awake at dawn."

"Hmm. A coffee?"

"I'd like that."

A colored maid suddenly appeared as if by a magician's command. She
handed Fitz a cup, and the Major gestured for him to sit down. The
Major continued to stand.

Fitz sipped the coffee as the Major frowned into the ledger book.

"Henry Patrick Fitz ... born in Gloucester, Massachusetts. The
year is not recorded, but upon your enlistment in 1861 you gave your
age as 18."

Fitz continued to sip the coffee.

"You gave your occupation as cordwainer and ... morocco
dresser. Not a fisherman?"

Fitz didn't answer.

"Hmm. You enlisted with Andrews Sharpshooters at Lynnfield.
Wounded at Antietam, wounded again at Petersburg. After the war you
joined up with the 4th Cavalry. Spent two years in Texas, when you
were discharged for disability. Wounded again?"

"They said I went crazy."

"Did they? What, sir, after surviving that horrible war, made
you crazy in Texas?"

"Wide open spaces."

"Wasn't there a matter of an officer being beaten to a pulp—by you, sir?"

"There was to be no record of that."

"Indeed ... it seems the Army wanted to avoid a court martial,
so they made a deal, and you agreed to be crazy."

"You seem to know an extraordinary amount about me—am I a
hobby of yours?"

"I paid an extraordinary amount for the information, sir—I'm
not satisfied with official records. There was a woman involved—the
officer's wife?"

"Draw your own conclusions."

"No need to. There was no affair—you beat the man because
... he beat his wife. In fact, he was in the habit of beating her.
Intruding in a domestic situation isn't done. Why did you do it if you
weren't ... intimate with the lady?"

Fitz's face froze into stone. He put his cup down.

"You have a soft spot for women, sir. Which is why your next
employment puzzles me."

Fitz stiffened as the Major consulted his ledger.

"Angus Rand."

"What about him?"

"He's a white slaver—he deals in human cargo. He's a pimp! A
destroyer of innocence. And you were his chief of security. You
guarded his shipments of unfortunate girls bound for lives of carnal
servitude. I will allow as your unique skills and experience made you
a perfect choice for the job, but why did you do it, Mr. Fitz?"

"He paid well. And work was scarce—and I wasn't ever going
back to the tanneries."

"Hmm, but perhaps your conscience got the better of you,
sir?"

Fitz stood. The velvet bowler also stood to block his exit.

"Please, Mr. Fitz," Foster said, his voice mild.
"Sit down."

Fitz sat.

"Your employment with Rand ended abruptly. I do not have the
details—but I understand it concerned a Chinese girl. I can imagine
what provoked the rupture."

"Major, what do you want of me?"

"Mr. Fitz, you—we—fought a war to end human chattel, did
we not? You bear scars—I left my foot in the trenches around
Petersburg. Yet, this man Rand—does he not enslave—young
women?"

"Major, what do you have against Rand?"

The Major's face darkened. Fitz waited.

"He has my daughter-in-law."

"What do you mean—he has her?"

"He has seduced her—to a life of depravity. He's stolen her
soul."

"Angus Rand has no interest in souls. What of her husband—your son?"

"My son ..." He practically spit the words onto the
expensive carpet. "My son is bent. My only surviving child is a
curse to me and an abomination in the eyes of God. It was he who
introduced my daughter-in-law to Rand, gave her to him, in exchange
for Rand's protection."

"Protection?"

"He's provided him a haven to practice his sickness. He is
provided with ... young boys. And my daughter-in-law ... she ... she
..."

"No one puts in with Rand unwillingly, Major."

He slammed the ledger onto his desk. "She was innocent, sir.
Innocent as the child just born. The man has her in some ... some
thrall."

"All right, if you say so. But I know Rand is no mesmerist. In
any case, what do you want me to do?"

"I want you to bring my daughter-in-law back to my home, and
her child."

"Child?"

"My daughter-in-law was pregnant when she fell into Rand's
grasp."

"Major, if you think your daughter-in-law is being held
against her will, why have you not employed the police?"

"They say there is no crime here—can you believe it? It's a
crime against morality itself."

The major sat down stiffly in a high-backed chair set against the
wall. "Mr. Fitz, I am a wealthy man, and my wealth affords me
some influence in this city, in this state. But I am powerless in this
regard. Rand is protected—I am sure of it. That is why I need a man—a man who can enter Rand's world."

"Major, if your daughter-in-law does not want to come home, I
can't very well force her."

"I only ask that you try your best to persuade her. Tell
Judith she will be loved and welcomed with open arms, but even if she
will not, please—please—bring me my grandchild. I'm told it was a
boy."

"I can't imagine Rand having much use for a squalling
infant."

"Unless he wants to taunt me—the devil."

"Why ... why would he ...?"

"I begged him to send the child to me. He sent me a child all
right; he said it was hers."

"And ..."

"It was a mulatto! Now, do you see what an evil bastard he
is?"

Fitz read the rage and desperation in Foster's eyes.

"Sir, I don't know if I can help you."

Foster stood and walked to the desk where the ledger book lay. He
took up a pen and wrote out a draft. Then he crossed the room, his
left leg dragging a false foot.

He held the check up to Fitz. "This is yours, no matter what
you can do. If only you would try. There will be more, of course, if
you succeed. And, if you would do one other thing ... then, sir, you
would only need name your fee and I will pay it."

"And what would that be, Major?"

"Kill Angus Rand."

Fitz took the check. "I'll not take money for killing, but
I'll see what I can find out."

"Very well, then. Here."

Foster slipped a card into his hand.

"It is my tailor. Have yourself a decent suit made, on my
account."

Fitz slipped the card into his pocket.

"Eisen will see you to the coach. The driver will take you
wherever you want to go."

So, the velvet bowler had a name—Eisen.

*
*
*

"Well, aren't you the dandy." Flannery stepped back and
beheld Fitz, dressed like he owned a bank, except for the felt hat
with a brim rakishly turned down over one eye.

"You like the new duds, then?"

"They're much too fine for tending bar—in this bucket of
blood anyways."

"I'm glad you see it that way. I'll be preoccupied for maybe
the next few days at least."

"Sure I can see that. What's old Foster paying you, and what
for?"

Fitz tossed his hat on the bar and signaled Sweeney to pour him a
whiskey.

"What's Angus up to these days?"

"Angus? Far as I know, he's in the same business he was when
you quit him—running women. But ..."

"But what?"

"He has himself a fine mansion across the river. There's talk—rumors ..."

"Of what?"

"That he's Kublai Khan himself—with his own grand pleasure
dome."

"What say?"

"Oh, maybe not as grand as the Khan's—but fancier than the
likes of us are used to."

"A whorehouse—he's running a top-shelf whorehouse, is that
your meaning?"

"It's all just talk, mind you; but, that talk is it's much
more than a whorehouse—more like an orgy palace for swanks and
high-steppers."

Fitz tugged his chin. "Foster wants me to find his
daughter-in-law. He says Angus has her—I took him to mean Angus is
fucking her. He thinks he's turned her into a whore. I suppose, if she
is with him, she'll be kept at his ... whatever it is."

"Never knew Angus to affiliate himself with any particular
female—not when he has so many to select from. Do you suppose the
sod has fallen in love?"

"With Foster's daughter-in-law? I suppose all things are
possible."

Fitz knocked back his drink. "Where the hell is it? You said
across the river."

"Nobody knows for sure."

"What? You'll not be telling me it's some fairyland palace,
will you?""

"Follow the swells—they'll be bringing their buggies across
on the late ferry."

"By the way—Foster told me about the child. It didn't die—but I wonder if it exists at all."

"Oh?"

"He said Angus sent him an infant he said was his grandchild—but it was colored."

"Ha! That must have put a splintery board up the old major's
arse."

"It doesn't make sense. Why would Angus taunt the man like
that—I know what Angus does and what he is—but I've never known
him to be a cruel man."

"Sounds personal."

"Maybe. I'll need a horse."

Flannery nodded. "Sweeney, get down to the livery, reserve a
fine steed for our knight errant. Nothing save winged Pegasus will
do."

Fitz counted the buggies and carriages being loaded onto the ferry.
There was just enough room left for him and his mount—a chestnut
mare named Peggy. While he had expected to see well-to-do men
boarding, he was surprised at the number of couples. Could they truly
be on their way to some secret den of debauchery? The fine ladies,
bundled up in expensive cloaks, waved, giggled and nodded to each
other, their excitement evident.

The ferry docked at the opposite shore and Fitz held back, letting
the swells' drivers set up and board their haughty passengers. There
would be no return ferry until 8 o'clock the next morning. Wherever
they were going, they were planning to spend the night.

The carriages traveled in train. Fitz wondered if position was
determined by ... position. He stayed behind them just close enough
to keep the trailing carriage's lantern in sight.

He sauntered along a path bordered by dark woods. After about a
half hour the woods gave way to grassy fields and gentle hills. The
stars and a nearly full moon seemed close enough to touch. Fitz felt
the familiar unease—like he was exposed.

The carriages veered down a path, and beyond Fitz counted four
elaborately decorated chimney caps rising behind the curve of a hill.
He urged the mare on. The carriages had disappeared around a slope.
But as Fitz followed, a magnificent mansion came into view. A long
stable and carriage houses were set off to the right. The place was as
large as a resort.

Fitz held back and watched the swells step out of their
conveyances. Groups of men took carriages and animals to the stable
area. The swells were escorted inside by uniformed liverymen. Fitz
urged the mare onward. A group of four men watched him approach.
Sharp, nervous exchanges between them ended when one swaggered to the
fore, his hand resting inside a waistcoat. Fitz guessed the man's hand
caressed the handle of a pistol.

His own was stashed inside a sash beneath his coat. It was a small,
four-shot revolver—a gambler's gun that Flannery had insisted on
loaning him. Fitz made no move as the man approached, his swagger
becoming more exaggerated as the distance closed.

"Who the hell are you?" he demanded. His voice was
strained, accented.

Fitz made no effort to pull up the horse; the man stepped in front
of him. Now Fitz could clearly see the needlessly large colt stuffed
into his belt.

"You got business here? You don't—you turn around." He
tapped his fingers on the Colt's handle.

Fitz let the horse stop of its own accord as his challenger
indignantly stepped back.

He was led into a grand hall, large enough for a palace. The swells
who had arrived before him were nowhere in sight. Fitz decided a
decent horse race could be run the length of the hall.

"Henry! Damn! It is you."

Fitz watched a familiar figure descend a broad staircase. He'd lost
nothing off his step. His hair and beard were threaded through with
silver, but the body was solid, and as he got closer, he noted his
steel gray eyes were just as alert, his cheeks as wide and ruddy as
ever.

"Sergeant Fitz himself." He grabbed Fitz's hand and
pulled him into a bracing hug. "So, you've come back to kill me,
have you?"

Fitz's face must have registered the shock the pit of his stomach
felt.

"Aw, hell, Fitz," Rand said, and patted the pistol under
his sash. "I've been expecting you. C'mon, let's get a
drink."

He started back up the staircase. No one made a move to disarm
Fitz. He followed.

Rand led him into a smoking room. A girl—a fragile China doll—puffed on a dope pipe by the fireplace. She wore a flimsy satin
sheath, slit up one leg to the hip.

Rand poured a golden liquor into a cut glass and handed it to Fitz.

"I'm not here to kill anyone, Angus."

Angus nodded, gesturing with his hand as if to convey the notion
that even if Fitz was on a mission to kill him it was of no great
import.

"Judith Pickman Foster does indeed reside here for the moment,
but no one is keeping her here. I tell you, Fitz, the girl is a witch,
a vixen—why she's my best draw—a natural performer."

"What? Performer? What the hell kind of place are you running
here, Angus? A country theater for crissakes?"

"Something like that," Rand winked.

"What the ..."

"Henry," Rand hung his arm over Fitz's shoulder.
"Come see for yourself. She's about to go on. You'll see—I am a
theater manager—of the most profitable theater ever. C'mon."

They left the girl with her pipe as Rand guided him along a narrow
corridor. A hidden door opened and Rand led him onto a darkened
balcony above a small theater-in-the-round. The swells, gentlemen and
ladies, occupied the audience seats. There was a tangible excitement
among the small, select crowd.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we present tonight—a tragedy. The
subversion of morality, the seduction of innocence, the despoliation
of a wholesome, proper maiden. These are no professional actors, my
good ladies and gentlemen. You will recognize them as they play out
their fall from grace. Now watch, and take heed, and perhaps allow
some pity for their surrender to the vices and immoral desires that
have become their ruin."

"What sort of malarkey is this ...?" Fitz huffed.

"Shhh."

"The stage lighting turned to a dark amber, then it came up
again. The audience buzzed with whispers.

"Ladies and gentleman, I present to you, Mr. William Sayre
Foster, and his lovely bride, Judith Pickman Foster."

Fitz focused on the couple, but more intently on the woman. She was
tall, willowy, and dressed in a white dress that accentuated the curve
of her hips and bosom, her dark hair piled high and adorned with a
girlish hat. Young Foster was conventionally dressed in formal attire
and top hat. A droopy blond moustache belied his boyish face. He
looked to be shorter than her.

The master of ceremonies intoned, "It is said within all of
us, dark desires lurk, ready to emerge and overwhelm a child of God.
Please, Mr. and Mrs. Foster, so to instruct our guileless guests, that
danger lurks around every corner, show us how you came to ruin. It was
on a fine day like this, was it not?"

"Don't ... don't talk to me in such a fashion ... you make me
feel ... so ... unclean."

"Come little girl—your husband is a cock lover. Look at
him."

William responded by slurping loudly as the young man pumped his
face.

"And you are no lady, are you? ... You're a whore ... you want
this fine big monster. Here, come get it."

"No ... no ... don't make me." But even as she protested,
she staggered a step at a time toward the giant, until she stood
before him.

"Show me those fine, creamy tits." He grabbed her bodice
and shred it in one motion. The crowd groaned, a woman shrieked.

Judith stood naked from her hips, her shredded dress hanging in
tatters.

"Kiss my big dick—go ahead, you know you want to,
whore."

"Please ... don't call me ..."

"Whore!"

Judith took the man's cock in both hands, and then, like a woman
starved, she licked, sucked and slathered it with her tongue.

"You filthy bitch!" someone yelled from the audience.

"Tramp!" "Slut!" "Slattern!"

Every epithet imaginable was flung toward the stage as the crowd
began to roil into a frenzy.

Two girls had entered the stage and quickly erected a bed that was
not much more than a mattress flung over some crates.

"I'll have your cunt now, whore!"

The giant lifted Judith into his arms and tossed her onto the
mattress. He tore away the remainder of her dress. She was entirely
naked except for a pair of knee stockings with deep blue ribbon bows,
her legs flailing, and her pink quim exposed beneath a thatch of dark
hair. Her body shone ethereally white under the stage lighting.

"Do it!—Do it!" the audience chanted.

"Fuck the whore!"

"No—No," Judith pleaded. "You'll split me in
two."

The giant was unrelenting.

"Her arse! Fuck the whore's arse!" It was a woman's
voice, followed by harsh laughter.

The giant laughed, then he flipped Judith over as if she were a
doll. A slight, Oriental girl appeared and slathered his cock with
thick shiny balm.

Judith did not resist as he lifted her by the hips, but only
whimpered pleas for mercy. Her dark hair had come free and hung like a
veil over her face as if to hide her shame. The giant turned
momentarily to the audience and waggled his cock.

"Pig grease to fuck a pig!" The audience roared in
response.

Fitz watched as the man's dark meat plunged into Judith's anus. The
girl trembled as if in seizure and shrieked. Cheers and applause
erupted from the audience.

For his part, William gulped and gagged as the young man discharged
his seed into his throat. But, by then the audience was riveted to the
violation of Judith. She moaned, her arms hanging limp. The man
plundered her body until he groaned and withdrew his cock spurting a
geyser of cream onto her buttocks.

"Show us! Show us!" the crowd demanded.

The giant stepped aside and held her cheeks apart so they could see
her hole oozing fluid. The crowd rose in applause. The giant scooped
his victim into his arms and carried her offstage, implying further
ravishment.

The young man yoked William with a noose and dragged him from the
stage on hands and knees, as the men cried, "Nancy! Poof! Cuckold
bitch!"

The audience had hardly calmed when the master of ceremonies
reappeared with several young girls to introduce "A Sapphic
Idyll."

Rand took Fitz's arm. "C'mon."

They stepped through the wall door and back into the corridor.

"What the hell!" Fitz sputtered. "I ... I don't
understand. She's one of them! One of their class!"

Fitz's ears felt like they were on fire. Rand pushed a drink into
his hand.

"As I said, Henry, Judith Foster is not being kept here
against her will. Not by any stretch."

"Angus ... those people in the audience. She must know them,
know all of them. It isn't like they were watching some anonymous
little Bridie getting pummeled. She's ... well, they're her
peers."

"True enough. Listen, Henry, it was her idea."

"But ... why?"

"I could have shown the same act with some anonymous Irish
Bridie, or a delicate little Oriental flower. But, the kick for them,
the thing what makes 'em go wild, is watching one of their own: A fine
lady they grew up with perhaps, had tea with ... getting her cunt
stretched by a huge buck like Jupiter."

"But why ... why would they? I don't get it."

"Do you want to talk to her?"

"Yes ... I'll need to do that."

"C'mon, I'll take you."

Fitz followed Rand again, barely heeding the little China girl who
had passed out next to her pipe.

This time they walked the wider main corridor. Rand stopped at a
door and knocked.

"Judith, you have a visitor. Are you decent, dear?"

"Never again."

Rand laughed and turned the knob.

Judith Foster lay across a sofa brushing her hair, her back propped
by lush satin pillows. She wore a kimono that fell open revealing most
of her long, pale legs.

"Dear, this is Henry Fitz."

"Ah, yes, daddy-in-law's hired dog."

Fitz stepped around Rand. "Your father-in-law is very
concerned for you, Mrs. Foster."

"Not all of me, Mr. Fitz. Just my womb."

Rand cleared his throat. "Henry, I'll leave you two to talk.
You can find your way back to my suite."

"How could you degrade yourself in front of people you know?
People of ..."

"Class ... breeding?"

"Yes ... you come from a privileged life, Mrs. Foster."

"Yes, I was privileged to be bored to the point of insanity,
my marriage arranged, allowed no control, no decision over my own life
and fate."

"Where I come from, people die on account of not having two
pennies to rub together."

"I know that. The people I grew up around—they're parasites,
sir. They suck up wealth like a sponge. I loathe them."

"It still doesn't explain ..."

"My deliberate debauchery? They so loved watching, didn't
they? They even brought their wives and sweethearts to witness it.
Why? Because they can well imagine those wives and sweethearts
submitting as I did. Oh, it puts a fire in their loins, the men and
the women, sir. The women all imagined themselves in my place; the men
imagined themselves in William's. And why?"

"Yes, why? It doesn't make sense to me."

"I don't truly know, sir. But I surmise because it takes so
much effort to be correct, to be proper society—I tell you from
experience, sir, it is exhausting. Perhaps they haven't the courage to
submit to their own humiliation, so they live mine vicariously."

She let her legs slide over the edge of the sofa and sat up, her
eyes boring unwaveringly into his.

"You can't ever return to what you call a proper life,"
Fitz said.

"Why not, assuming I wanted to? Those same men and women who
called me whore and watched my rape, if we were to pass in the park
they would nod politely, and carry on as if there were nothing
untoward about it."

"What?"

"When I was about twelve or thirteen I happened upon some literature in my father's study. It was entirely about young virgins
being ravished. How could such ... filth ..."—she smiled with
one brow cocked—"... have come into my father's study? Of
course, I concluded it was his.

"Thereafter, every chance I had, I would secret my way into
Daddy's study, and read his stories. They spoke to me, as lurid as
they were, they excited me. One time I was so immersed in my reading I
did not notice my father enter. He ripped it out of my hands and
ordered me to leave. He never spoke of this to me. You see, that is
how indelicate matters are handled in proper society. One pretends it
never happened. Because, to acknowledge my perversion, he would have
to confess to his."

"You are here of your own free will."

"Most assuredly, Mr. Fitz."

"There is the matter of your child—your father-in-law's
grandchild."

"The child was sent to him."

"The child was colored."

A deep resonating laughter echoed from an anteroom. The huge black
man from the stage stepped through the door. Judith looked at him and
smiled, a sly, knowing smile.

Fitz faced him. "The child was yours?"

"That's right. I paid Major Foster my respects to grow inside
the belly of his son's wife."

Fitz turned again to Judith. "The Major said you were pregnant
when you arrived here."

"Well, he had hoped so; he made Olympian efforts to see to
it."

Fitz pushed his hand back through his hair.

"Poor Mr. Fitz," Judith cooed. "I'm surprised; I
thought a man of your reputation would be more ... worldly."

"It would seem I've lived a sheltered life. Perhaps you can
enlighten me."

"Very well." She signaled to Jupiter to join her on the
couch. He sat and she melted into his immense frame.

"I was married against my will. But I discovered in William a
kindred soul. His father loathed him for his predilections. And he, as
I, rejected the staid hypocrisy of our upbringings. His father wanted
an heir to carry on the Foster name. William, brave soul that he is,
refused. Oh, he could have. Yes, he prefers his own sex, but he could
have impregnated me. He just refused to do that to me. He stood up to
his father."

"But, your father-in-law was sure ..."

"Of course he was. When his son refused, he determined to do
the deed himself."

"What?"

"He fucked me, Mr. Fitz. He came to my bed when William was
away; he told me I could have anything I wanted, that I was a vessel
sent directly to him by God for the purpose and it was a holy act.
Then he fucked me. He fucked me as many as three times a day to ensure
I would become pregnant with a proper heir. Oh, sir, he huffed and
puffed and soldiered on, but, I think, over the years the old
soldier's powder had lost its flash. I was never pregnant with his
child."

Fitz wished he had a drink. Jupiter watched him, grinning at his
discomfiture.

"William knew about this place, because the Major had taken
him here in an effort to divert his yearning for men. He forced him to
bed with whores here. When he heard what his father had done to me, he
appealed to Mr. Rand to take us in. I was never held against my will
as daddy-in-law has claimed—this is our sanctuary—mine and
William's."

"The child you sent to Foster ..."

"Mine, and Jupiter's. Oh, I wish I could have seen the Major's
face."

"But, it was your child."

"I have no use for an infant—do you, Darling?" She
looked up into Jupiter's face.

"No," he chuckled. "I expect I left plenty of
bastards between here and Georgia."

"Well," Judith said carelessly. "I certainly hope
daddy-in-law had the decency to leave the child at the Colored Orphans
Home. He is its prime benefactor, after all."

"It doesn't bother either one of you," Fitz said, disgust
and resignation in his voice.

"So, you won't be tryin' to bring Judith back to the
Major." Jupiter's smile had faded. His face was stone
determination.

"Doesn't seem much point, now that she's explained
things."

"I know you, Mr. Fitz. I know you from the war. I served under
the Major in those days. He said it was his God-given duty to lead us
colored troops—teach us to be good soldiers so when we was all
shipped back to Africa after the war, we could defends our new
countries.

"Meantime, he likes to use us like decoys. Always ordered us
out first ahead of the white soldiers, let the Rebs spend their
ammunition on us and then lets the white regiments overrun the
position and get all the glory. They had to step over many a dead
black soldier on their way."

Fitz was transported back to the battlefields.

"One time, a Reb sniper gots to amuse himself by picking off
our boys—a couple an hour. I was their sergeant-major. I begged the
Major to get us a sharpshooter who could kill the sniper, but he
refused. Said us niggers had better learn not to make ourselves such
easy targets.

"Then one day along you come strolling into our camp. No one
sent for ya, you just heard of our troubles. That Reb sniper was dead
and cold an hour after you arrived. My men and me, we never forgot
that. That's why, now, I'm glad there ain't gonna be no contention
between us."

Fitz stood. Without a word he turned and left the room.

*
*
*

He made his way back to Rand's suite. He didn't bother to knock.

He found Rand sitting on the plush sofa; the little China girl had
apparently returned from the land of Morphia and was bouncing on his
lap.

"Lickee-suckee-lickee-suckee," she chanted.

"No, not now, Soozie, I have company."

"But am I not Daddy's very good lickee-suckee girl?"

"Oh, you are, my little butterfly, you are, and you will. But
I need to talk with Henry now."

The girl turned and smiled at Henry. "Maybe Henry like
lickee-suckee."

Her childish sing-song voice at once captivated Fitz and made him
cringe.

"I thought you were Daddy's lickee-suckee girl." Rand
turned the girl over on his knee and gently paddled her behind as she
squealed.

He had her stand on wobbly legs.

"Now, you little minx, get yourself to bed. I'll be along to
play soon. Say goodnight to Henry."

She stumbled into a turn, giggled, and said, "Goodnight,
Henry."

Fitz smiled and nodded. They watched the tiny girl totter off
toward the bedroom.

"Remind you a little of Lin?" Rand asked.

"She's nothing like Lin."

Rand sighed. "No, I don't suppose she is. Are you still angry
with me about Lin?"

"Aw, Christ, Angus. I thought I was in love."

"You can't fall in love with the goods, Henry. If it'll make
you feel any better, though, she's living like a queen—kept of
course, but better off than royalty."

"It doesn't make me feel better, but I appreciate the
gesture."

"Sun's coming up. Time for bed. I have a room for you. Still
having trouble sleeping?"

"I never had trouble sleeping—I never had trouble dreaming,
either."

"Oh, yes, the dreams."

"Angus—you cater to these people, you make your living off
their vices. They are the goddamned pillars of society. They live in a
realm so far removed from—I don't know—the ugliness of life. I see
a woman like Judith Foster—a cold one, she is." He hung his
head.

"The other day I watched the corpse of a young woman tossed
into the dead wagon—hanged herself after her two kids died of
diphtheria. I have no idea who or where her man was—maybe she was a
dead soldier's wife."

"Trying to make sense of it, Henry? C'mon, you ought to know
better. There will always be the rich and the poor. Even in this grand
republic where we're all supposed to be created equal. The rich are
above it all, always will be. Churches, morality—that just keeps the
hoi polloi in line. And that's just fine with everyone."

"How so?"

"Henry, how do you suppose I can run a place like this? It's a
secret shared by a privileged few—a privileged few who pay me a
great deal to amuse them. By God, things go on here that could get you
hanged, but do you see me fretting?"

Fitz shook his head.

"Because people see what they want to see. The poor aren't
able to see what goes on in this world; the rich, they're blind to
whatever goes on in the poor man's world. They'll never see because
they either can't or don't want to see. Because if they did, they'd be
given that horrifying knowledge that they can do something about it,
or admit to God they don't want to do anything about it."

"You're making me dizzy, Angus."

"Ever read Plato?"

"Plato? Damn, you're well educated for a whoremaster,
Angus."

"I'm no pimp, Henry, I'm a purveyor. But once I was a teacher.
Yes, I taught snotty little rich girls the like of Judith Pickman."

"You don't say."

"But, back to Plato—see, he said people lived their lives as
if in a cave. They were so comfortable in their darkness they refused
to look into the light. Hell, the light would just blind them anyway.
And people who lived outside the cave, well, their eyes couldn't
penetrate the darkness. See, whether an excess of light, or an excess
of darkness, people are going to see what they expect to see."

"That's good for you, I suppose, Angus."

"Aw, hell, every so often some reformer gets a big hairy
beetle up his ass. That's when the bastards will turn on me. But I'll
have made my money off them by then—move to France, maybe."

"Don't let your guard down, Angus."

"Wouldn't need to fret about that if you were still guarding
my back."

"What about the jumpy kid with the big Colt?"

"The gunsel?" The voice was familiar. Fitz turned and
grinned at the dwarfish figure with the long gray trailing beard.

"Max! Damn, still keeping the books?"

"Henry, my friend. You're coming back to work for us? May God
make it so. All these mishuga kids with big guns, all chutzpah, and no
brains."

Fitz shook Max's hand as Angus said, "Sleep on it, Henry. I
have a room ready for you, 413."

"I have a client at the moment, Angus. Unfinished business I
need to conclude."

"Just sleep on it."

"Sleep—perchance to dream." He sighed.

*
*
*

Max pointed Fitz toward his room. He walked alone, silently, his
footfalls absorbed by the thick carpeting. As he passed one room he
heard a groan.

"God, no, you're going to kill me. Help! Help me!"

Fitz tried the door. It opened.

Another groan and a plea, then Fitz saw them on the bed. It was not
the matter of life and death he had thought. He tried to retreat
without them noticing.

William Foster lay across the bed, his ass filled with cock—the gunsel's
cock. The kid noticed Fitz before he could slip out. He stood, his
cock yanked out of William so suddenly it made him cry out.

"Julio? What—what is it?"

The kid stood, shivering in rage and embarrassment.

"None of my business, kid," Fitz said and took a step
back. He watched the kid's eyes dart to his clothes on a chair. The
big-handled colt lay on top of the pile.

"Don't, kid. I won't tell anyone, so don't make this worse
than it is."

The kid gathered his clothes and stumbled into his trousers.
"I'll kill you," he growled.

"Another day."

He ran past Fitz leaving William shivering and forlorn.

"Sorry," Fitz said. "Didn't mean to intrude. I
thought you were in trouble."

"You're the man my father sent to kill me."

"No—everyone thinks I'm here to kill someone. Besides, you
are the heir to your father's fortune, Mr. Foster. Why should he kill
you—his own son?"

"I'm disowned. If I ever tried to go home, my father would see
to it that I would die."

"That's—too bad. I'm sorry, Mr. Foster."

"He sent you to reclaim Judith—not me. She won't go with
you."

"So she says."

"You'll not try to take her?"

"No."

"Well, then. Good day to you, sir. You must excuse Julio—he
just doesn't want anyone to know he's ... well ..."

"Uh-huh. Good day, Mr. Foster."

Fitz backed out and closed the door. He found his room and stepped
inside. The bed was just too plush, but he stripped out of his clothes
and fell into it. His body melted into the feather mattress. He
resigned himself to his dreams.

The prairie skies stretched to the horizons, and proceeding from
the horizons, at a slow but resolute pace, gray forms, like troops,
making their way toward him and a reckoning.

The needle drove its way into his brain. He was in someone's
sights. His hand shot from under the coverlet. His pistol in hand, he
aimed between the eyes of the intruder.

"Don't shoot!" the girl cried.

"Dammit, girl, what are you doing here?"

"I'm Kasey. Mr. Rand sent me."

Fitz placed the gun on an end table beside the bed. "Damn,
Angus. He thinks a good fuck can cure anything."

"He said you have trouble sleeping?"

"Not sleeping."

"Oh ... yes ... your dreams. You have bad dreams. If you let
me, I might help you."

He looked up at her. Her long, coltish legs were dressed in silk
stockings to just above the knees. A short silk wrap clung to her
nakedness. Ash blond hair draped her shoulders. Her face was mostly in
shadow, but her lips were perfect cupid's bows.

"Please," she said. "Let me try."

"Sure ... what the hell ... make yourself at home."

Fitz sighed and she approached, laying long manicured fingers on
his shoulder. She sat on the edge of the bed and eased him gently down
until his head rested in her lap. She had him turn onto his stomach so
one cheek rested on her thigh. Her fingers pressed and prodded, and
her thumbs kneaded his neck, and then along his spine between his
shoulder blades. Every muscle relaxed at her touch.

"Look, Kasey, I'm not a good bedmate. Any woman I've been with
I've left or made her leave before I fell asleep."

"Did you want me to sleep with you?"

"That would be lovely, but ..."

"I will if you want me to. Now, be at peace."

"Peace." He chuckled.

"Tell me about your dreams. Are there monsters?"

"No ..." Her fingers erased all tension. Fitz might have
been more amazed at her magical touch if he weren't instantly lulled
into a state of careless relaxation.

"What frightens you so?"

"Having no place to hide," he replied, his voice barely a
whisper.

"Hide from whom?"

"Vengeful souls, I guess."

"Tell me."

He sighed. "In the war I was a sharpshooter. Our job was to
pick off the officers, target any man who seemed to be in command—generals down to sergeants. And artillery crews. But then they culled
a few of us out to be counter-snipers.

"Killing didn't bother me during an all-out battle. Everyone
was killing. But when you are coldly targeting one man ... well
..." His voice trailed off. He yawned.

"Go to sleep, if you like ... we can talk when you
awake."

Fitz's eyelids were so heavy. "No ... no, it's all right. I
... you see, I could always sense when someone was looking at me, ever
since I was a kid—I don't mean seeing me in a crowd, but looking
right at me. I could sense—know when I was in someone's sights, I
could pace his breathing, and I knew precisely when he squeezed the
trigger. So I'd make myself an easy target. Get him to take a shot. A
sniper concentrates so intently on his target. He knows just where his
bullet will strike. All I needed to do was shift my position, just a
bit. I would hear the bullet whistle as it passed. But more important,
I was able to mark his muzzle flash. I'd adjust my aim just enough,
according to how I figured he moved after his shot. They never knew
anything because it happened so quick. I'd fire—and, by God, I swear
I could hear the thud of the bullet as it tore into their flesh."

The girl stopped kneading his shoulder a moment.

"Any soldier who's been in close combat will tell you he'll
never forget the face of the first man he killed. But, what haunts me
are faceless ghosts. I never saw their faces, even though I knew I
took their lives. They didn't start to haunt me until I served with
the Cavalry. There are places in Texas so flat and open; you swear you
can see from one end of the world to the other. Out there—no place
to hide ... from ghosts."

"You were a soldier. They would have killed you."

Fitz felt the last bit of tension leave his body. "I wish ...
I could tell them ..."

"Then tell them."

The gray figures closed around him in a semi-circle. Fitz strained
to make out their faces, but they were blurred as if by frosted glass.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry you died. You—we
were all soldiers in that lousy war—you would have killed me. But,
none of us should have been trying to kill the other. The whole
country lost its mind."

The mute figures didn't stir.

"I was hoping we could let bygones be. There's a girl ...
she's pretty, and sweet ... I barely know her—hell, I don't know her
at all—but I know I need to hold her like there's nothing else in
the world. I wish you could have gone home and held a girl in your
arms like that. I'm sorry—truly sorry—you didn't get the
chance."

Their veils began to evaporate, the men's faces revealed: one old,
bearded, another barely out of his teens, then the others, thirteen in
all. And in their eyes—not forgiveness, because there was no need—but, understanding.

Before the last of them faded forever, he nodded to Fitz.

He woke, his tears staining Kasey's lap. "They're gone."

"Shhh, go back to sleep." She laid her hand on his back
to calm his sobs.

"Stay with me."

"I will."

*
*
*

When he woke again, the late afternoon sun had angled its way
between the heavy curtains. Kasey lay with him, in his arms, her body
flush against his. She felt wonderful, and he had not known such peace
in so long.

Her eyes opened. "Hello."

"Thank you—for staying."

She smiled.

"Who are you, Kasey? An angel—a witch?"

"Just a girl."

"From some magical place."

"Just Kansas."

Fitz nodded. "Poor bleeding Kansas."

"My family was killed by Missouri raiders. I mostly grew up in
an orphanage."

"How did you come here?"

"A minister—well, he said he was a minister. He took me from
the orphanage when I was almost sixteen. Said he would teach me to be
God-fearing. They just let him take me."

"He adopted you?"

"No, just took me. He wanted to be sure I hadn't been with
boys. Used his fingers to prove to himself I wasn't."

Fitz squeezed her hip. "I'm sorry."

She shrugged. "I guess he was fixing to sell me—a virgin. He
took me to Kansas City. He lost me in a poker game."

"Don't tell me—to Angus."

"He didn't lose well—Mr. Rand had to kill him. Later, Mr.
Rand told me he could provide me with a fine life. He told me what I
would have to do, but he let it be my decision. I had no place else to
go, no family. I went with him. He gave me the name Kasey, cause he
said he found me in K.C. Since then, I've ... done things ... learned
to do things for men, and women. But mostly, they just want me to
touch them, and talk to them."

"Kasey ... I want to kiss you."

"I want you to kiss me."

Their lips barely touched at first. Then he pressed his lips to her
cupid's bows. Their mouths opened and their tongues touched. He let
has hand slide along her hip and over her belly, and trailed kisses
down her neck and around the curve of a breast.

Kasey rolled her body onto his, and kissed him again, long, languid
kisses, but each of their hearts beat faster to a growing want.

She reached down and closed her long, slender fingers around his
rampant cock, tapped his cockhead with her nails. He felt his fluids
roil.

"Please," he said.

She shifted her hips, then sheathed his cock with her body.

His eyes rolled back and a gasp escaped his mouth. She began to
fuck him, gently at first, then with increasing fervor. He wanted to
give himself up entirely to the sensations that surged through him
like electricity.

He thought, 'There is no place else I want to be, no one else I
want to be with.'

His hips pumped in answer to her motions until they fell into a
rhythm. His hands grasped her hips, pulling her onto him, she
resisting, then pounding back into his lap. Leaning forward now, her
breasts grazed his face with stiffened nipples.

He felt her cunt clench him, then release, then clench again. He
erupted inside her. Their tension escaped in one long shared sigh.

She shifted again and let his spent cock slip from her. As she
nuzzled against him, he pulled her into his arms.

A soft knock at the door roused them. The sun was setting.

*
*
*

"She's amazing, isn't she?"

Fitz fixed a quizzical look at Rand. "Kasey?"

"No! The damned mare you rode in with. Yes, Kasey."

Fitz laughed, but then his face fell into a serious frown.
"Yes, she's magical."

"I figured, maybe I owed you something, for Lin."

"What are you saying, Angus?"

"Come back to work for me, Henry. You can live here—with
Kasey."

"Damned generous of you, Angus, to give me a human being to
play with."

"She's a free woman, Henry. She's wonderful, but she's always
been an odd ... rather lonely girl. There's something about her ...
it's as if she was expecting you. You know—she's had her eye on you
since you've been here."

"What? But—I didn't sense. I mean, I didn't ..."

Angus shrugged. "Maybe ... you could be kindred souls. If you
believe in that kind of thing. You each have a gift."

"I have to conclude the business with Foster, and settle up
with Flannery."

"That old reprobate mick."

"He lent me a hand when I needed it."

"All right. Then what? Will you come back, Henry?"

"I will."

"Good—good. Your horse is saddled. Get out of here—then
get your ass back here."

Kasey met him on the porch and took his arm as they walked along
the path toward where a groom held the mare.

"You're coming back?" she asked.

"Yes."

She kissed his cheek. He turned to kiss her back.

The needle stabbed into his brain, a heart was beating wildly
nearby, he sensed a finger squeezing a trigger. He pushed Kasey away
with one arm and wheeled as the bullet whistled past his cheek. He
drew his revolver and fired at the flash behind the hedge. There was a
cry, and the sound of a body hitting the dirt.

Angus and Max ran from the house and teetered over the porch.

"The gunsel!" Max said. "Poor goose."

Fitz picked Kasey off the ground, relieved she was not hit.

"Go on, Henry," Angus shouted. "We'll clean up
around here."

*
*
*

Fitz traveled straight to Foster's from the ferry dock. A servant
showed him to the same study where he had met the old man for the
first time.

"Mr. Fitz—please, sir, what news do you bring me?"

"Major, there is no child."

"No—no, that can't be."

"But you still have a son."

"No! I want to hear nothing of that—that freak."

"All right, then. The child Rand sent you was Judith's. The
father is ... well, he and Judith are ... partners. Neither wanted the
child. They expected you would provide for it."

Foster said nothing, but Fitz could sense his impotent rage simmer
and rise.

"But, she had to be with child, she ..."

"She said you forced yourself on her. You were that determined
to have an heir to your liking. Her marriage to your son was never
consummated."

"A-hah! Yes, because he is not a man."

"But you are. You raped the woman."

"It was not rape! She consented; she said she loved me—a
real man. She wanted to carry my child, my only chance for a
child."

"Then she played you. Do you know what she does at
Rand's?"

"That—that's not important."

"You do—don't you? Of course, you have a spy there. Angus
knew when I was coming and why. And there was only one other person in
this room the morning we met besides you and me. Where the hell is
Eisen?"

"That's impossible!"

"You reneged on the deal—why? You say you promised Judith
everything. You could forgive her, forgive even her whoring—so long
as no one knew. That's it! Eisen told you, she fucks for an audience—an audience of people just like you—your associates, friends,
cousins, family. Proper fucking society!"

"No! It's not true!"

"No fortune, and no payoff. For a secret whore, perhaps, but
not for a woman who publicly debauches herself."

Foster threw up his hands as if to rage at the heavens. "Can't
you understand? I would be a laughingstock. They would make jokes
behind my back, about me, about the child. But I still loved her; I
could keep her ... in some secret place."

"You people and your damned secrets."

Eisen burst through the door. "Major Foster!"

"Uh-huh and here's the spy. He told you all about Judith,
about Jupiter, about their—performances. Well, Major, your spy has
two faces. He told Angus all about our meeting."

"No, please, Major, you can't believe ..."

"What's your particular bent?" Fitz accused Eisen.
"You like girls to whip you, shit on you? What? What did Angus
provide that you couldn't get anywhere else? What did you crave?"

Eisen trembled, his words caught in his throat. He wiped his brow
jerkily with a handkerchief.

Foster, hands on his desk and head lowered, said, "He likes
girls to dress him like a baby."

"Sir!"

"Damn! Isn't that how I found you? ... Traitor!"

Fitz shook his head. "I'm not that curious—we can draw the
curtain of charity right here."

Fitz adjusted his fedora and then saw himself out.

He had traveled only fifteen minutes from the house when he heard a
rider overtake him. Eisen pulled up his mount as Fitz drew his
revolver.

"He's dead!" the man screamed.

"Foster?"

"Shot himself in the head."

Fitz shrugged.

Tears streamed off Eisen's cheeks. "I betrayed him—he was
like a father to me."

"Well, then, consider yourself unique—if not blessed. Did
you want to take this further?"

Eisen glared, then wheeled his horse and galloped back toward
Foster's mansion.

*
*
*

There were just two rum-dums passed out face down at their tables
when Fitz returned to Flannery's bar.

"You're back," Flannery greeted him.

"Not for long."

Flannery nodded. "Going back to work for Angus, are ya?"

"You expected it?"

Flannery shrugged. "You'll miss the grand nuptials."

"Whose?"

"Sweeney ... and Mother Gummer."

"You don't say."

"I do say. Seems one night some hulking oaf denied her her two
bits for blowing his skin flute. He slapped her hard enough to put her
on her fat old arse."

"And ..."

"Well, wouldn't you know, Sweeney comes to her rescue. Clouted
the sod with a sap and lifted Mother off the floor and declared his
undying love for her."

"Wonders ... will they never cease?"

"Who'da thought Sweeney had it in him? What a noble sod."

"A hero and a gentleman."

"Well ... I'll give him your regards. Take care, Fitz."

"Take care, Flannery. If I can ever return the favor ..."

"I'll think on it," he said, and slyly tugged his chin.

*
*
*

Fitz waited for the ferry and gazed at the star-sprinkled skies. On
the other side of the river Kasey waited—a second chance. That's all
Foster wanted; maybe, he thought, that's all William and Judith
wanted.